Painted on Both Sides
by Ellie Roo
Summary: How did Matthew go from loving a woman like Mary to proposing to a woman like Lavinia? And can he find his way back again? Matthew/Mary, Matthew/Lavinia


_A/N: This is my first fanfic…ever! I've taken so much inspiration from all of yours that I wanted to have a go. I'm really interested in Matthew's evolution between seasons 1 & 2. Spoilers will abound here and reviews are much appreciated :). Starts off with Sybil's ball - stay tuned for chapter two and Miss Swier._

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: Love's Labour Lost<strong>

Spring had come late to London, but now it was here in force. Matthew had been in the army for nearly two years, and a tour at the front was just the thing to make even sooty London shine in his eyes. He'd never liked the scale of London, even before his life became full of the country sensibilities of Downton. Nevertheless, he was determined to love the city wholly during his leave.

He had been walking through Mayfair for 20 minutes before he realized he had wandered to the site of Sybil's ball. _The place where Mary had been sure_. At least, he thought so at the time. The events were so fresh in his mind's eye that he blushed at the sight of the place.

He remembered dressing for the ball, with Mosley fussing over him. Matthew had studied his reflection while Mosley bustled about. _You've looked better._ This was a reality that Mosely seemed to take as a personal affront, but so it was. Pale skin, chapped lips, Matthew even thought he spied a spot popping up on his chin for the first time since he'd left Harrow.

It had been six weeks since his proposal. That whirlwind evening allowed for a few days of uncomplicated jubilation on Matthew's part, followed by one week of awkward, confusing conversations until the family decamped for London. He had come to London the day before the ball and hadn't even seen them – any of them – yet.

Matthew arrived just as the evening was beginning to pick up. His eyes immediately found Mary, looking ravishing in a deep purple frock. He reddened as he thought how apt the term was, and took the opportunity to stare. He was acutely aware that his wasn't the only set of male eyes on her. Jealousy rose inside him: crazy, irredeemable, hopeless jealousy. He imagined greeting Mary with a kiss, letting them all know she was his and only his.

_Steady on_.

Matthew had spent a lifetime being schooled in how to control his emotions, so it was the sheer force of habit more than anything else that pulled him back from the brink. Reflecting on it now, Matthew felt he should be commended for how well he had played the role of the fiancé in limbo. After exchanging brief greetings with the family, he marched away to be fawned over by silly girls in their first and second seasons who had already had far too much to drink. Miss Dull and Miss Duller were on either side of him wherever he turned. Their incessant prattling threw Mary's calm, cool gaze into even starker relief.

As the evening wore on, Matthew felt his jealousy swing towards anger. What right did she have to treat him this way? He was a man, not a toy to be played with. He had said as much to her. Matthew scowled into his champagne glass. Gripping the stem in a most ungentlemanly fashion, he downed the glass's remaining contents in one satisfying gulp. Miss Duller looked particularly taken aback at this scene, which pleased Matthew considerably.

"Excuse me," he mumbled at them as he stalked off towards Mary, who had just finished a tour on the dance floor with some long-faced duke.

"Won't you do me the honor of dancing with me?" Matthew said to Mary, by way of greeting. He wanted his words to brim with irony, and was disappointed that they sounded so childish.

"Of course," she smiled at him. Matthew pulled her towards him with more force than was required and steered her out on to the dance floor.

Matthew had spent most of the past half hour constructing pithy little comments to unveil during their first London conversation, but all that scholarly work deserted him as the music started. He couldn't say those things, not to her. Mary took this silence as an opportunity to steer the conversation towards safer waters.

"Now tell me, who do you think will enjoy the season more: Sybil attending her first balls, or Carson attending to the scratched silver?"

Matthew smiled in spite of himself. "It's hard to imagine anyone's joy rivaling the pleasure Mr. Carson receives from a well-polished sugar sifter."

And so they managed to talk in the old way, about debutante balls and strange news from the continent and what her grandmother had said to Lady So-and-so. But as the song came to a close, Mary's tone changed. She held his hand a moment longer after the music stopped. "We've all missed you terribly, Matthew," she said quietly. "I'm very glad to see you looking so well." With that, she turned and walked away. Matthew stood motionless on the dance floor as other couples jostled against him. _If Mary's leaving the ballroom, why should you be here?_ True. He followed her into the hall.

By the time he reached her, he was panting a bit from his pursuit. "I'm afraid you've worn me out," Matthew tried to offer lightly, speaking to her turned back. But hadn't she? Since the proposal, Matthew had felt himself hovering close to a state of anguish his lawyerly heart had once thought only happened to Dickens characters.

"You should have worn your dancing shoes. Goodness knows I did." Mary replied, that indecipherable smile appearing on her face as she turned towards him.

"Well, you're the one who left the dance floor. Let's have another go." He said, extending his hand, trying to hit a note of bravado.

She started to say something, but stopped and leaned against a door leading off the hallway. Mary, in fact, was the one who looked worn out. She sighed and brought one velvet-gloved hand up to her brow. As Mary was about to begin again, the door behind her pushed open slightly. Instinctively, Matthew's right arm flew up. He propped the door open fully and leaned forward. Their eyes met, and Matthew arched one eyebrow. _Please_. They both took one, audible breath in, and then half-walked, half-tumbled into the next room.

After that auspicious entrance, Matthew, much to his own surprise, turned and clicked the door shut behind them. The room was revealed to be some sort of largish storage room for serving silver, with only one small lamp lit on the middle shelf.

_What are you doing?_ The still-sane part of his mind had recovered its voice. _You cannot be in here with her like this_.

In the semi-darkness, Mary was looking down and fidgeting with her necklace in that girlish way.

"Mary – " He began. Too late. She raised her eyes and looked at him with a searching intensity. She looked so sad, and Matthew couldn't stand it. "What is it?"

He brushed two fingers against the inside of her elbow, trying to coax her. She didn't say anything, but she stepped towards him once, and then once again. Matthew could see her chest rising and falling with every breath. He didn't dare move. She leaned up and then she was kissing him: suddenly, happily, actually. Matthew was taken aback only for a moment. Then he wrapped both of his arms tight around her waist and brought her close to him in a way he hadn't dared that night at Downton. He wanted to obliterate whatever bothered her, whatever was beyond the two of them in that moment.

_What are you doing! _The interjection of reason shattered his focus. Good god, he was kissing the Lord of Grantham's eldest daughter in some London cupboard. What kind of man was he, to take advantage of a woman like Mary – twice now! He felt suddenly sick and pulled away.

"Mary – is this – that is are you – sure?" He stammered, the words sputtering out one by one.

"I've never been unsure of you, Matthew," she said, looking down.

"Then it is a real reply, a yes?" He held his breath. It had always been this simple.

"Oh Matthew, can't we leave the serious business for once we're at home? Let's just enjoy my last 'real' London season."

_Her last London season_. Mary stepped towards the door, throwing him a true, dazzling smile over a bare shoulder. In that moment, Matthew Crawley thought he knew real happiness.

How wrong could one man be?


End file.
